I’m standing on a street in Shibuya, and a small Chinese prostitute is grabbing my arm.

“Do you want massage?” she asked.

“No thanks.” I said.

“Only two thousand yen. Come now, we go to second floor.”

“Seriously I’m good.” I replied.

Beside me, the same thing was happening to Rob. The two ladies were tiny, with intense eyes and relatively cute features. They were very aggressive, but finally we got away.

This is how the night started to wind down in Rippongi.

THREE HOURS EARLIER:..

I’m sitting in a pasta shop somewhere in Shibuya, chatting to a dancer that looks like a perfect ten model. Her name is Jeri,  and she’s in town dancing somewhere in Rippongi. She is easily the hottest woman I’ve met since I’ve been to Tokyo.  She’s very friendly, and chatting to her is a pleasure. She reminds me of a dancer I saw when I went to club Womb a few months prior, but this is her first time in Japan.

“I’m from L.A, but the scene is really good here. I might come back.” She says.

She’s wearing a summer straw hat, a white skirt, and a tank top that reveals her voluptuous figure. She’s tanned and unblemished. Later Rob would tell me she’s mixed with a few things, but he couldn’t remember what exactly.

“I did this show,” she said. “With a  Japanese group called the MANEATERS.”

“Sounds bizarre.” I said with a laugh.

Jeri, Rob and I chat about traveling and our adventures, for a few minutes. “What are you guys doing tonight?” she says. “Maybe Rippongi or here in Shibuya.” Rob says to her. “I’m performing tonight at the Gallery in Rippongi.” She says. “You guys should check it out.”

Jeri was a professional Go-Go dancer.  Initially, Rob was confused.  “Is Go-Go dancing stripping?” he asked.

“No, its not.” She said.

I have to admit, I didn’t really know the difference either. But I was guessing Go-Go dancers were the hot girls who danced on elevated platforms in large clubs all over the world.

I got her number and she left. As she stood up, I was surprised to see how petite she was. She disappeared soon after, as Rob and I talked about what to eat. “Wow, what are the odds of meeting a girl like her randomly like that?” I said.
“I guess that’s  Tokyo for you.” Rob replied with a laugh.

Rob had come to Tokyo on a mission. To see the sights, go to a few museums and eat at a revolving sushi restaurant in Shibuya. We had no idea where it was. To describe Shibuya is to try and describe and endless concert with thousands of fans roaming the streets all the time, every day. Each time I travel to Shibuya, for a few minutes I feel a buzzing in my head. So many people, so many lives and so many things happening at once really aren’t a part of my basic biological makeup I believe. When I’m there, I want to be a hunter-gatherer again, farming in the mountain with a gang of scruffy kids behind me gathering wood.

Rob asks someone where the restaurant is. He is African, and like almost all the West Africans I’ve seen in Tokyo, he works in the area, promoting clubs or bars. He tells us where the restaurant is, a place where all the Sushi costs one hundred and twenty yen. We step in, and Rob squeals with excitement. “We doing it son! Tokyo!”

A man in a chef’s hat points to a sign at the reception area. “You must eat at least seven dishes.” It read. “That’s cool with me.” I said.

We were ushered to a few seats around the back, and as we walked past the crowd a face stood out:  A small guy with a thick head of black hair and a very scruffy beard. I immediately recognized him as Jason Schwartzman, the actor (Rushmore, The Darjeeeling Limited). As we walked to our seat I rested my hand on his shoulder. “Hey man, are you a professional actor?” I said. “Why yes I am.” He replied. “Awesome, I love your work man!” I said while walking away. “Thank you.” He said with a smile.

The sushi at the bar was wicked delicious and I ended eating eight plates. Rob had nine. Beside me, a few feet away, Schwartzman was still hanging out in the restaurant. I went over. I chit-chatted with them for a while about Tokyo. He was in town to check out the opening of “Opening Ceremony”, a large store that has branches in New York and Los Angeles. “It’s opening Sunday. You should check it out, the store is going to be pretty amazing.”

Rob, who was behind me. “Opening Sunday? Is that the name of the store?”

“No.” Jason said with a laughing. “The store is Opening Ceremony and it’s opening on Sunday.”

“Wow, the opening ceremony for Opening Ceremony is on Sunday when it opens.” I said.

We all laughed. Schwartzman was cool, and I snapped some pictures and got a video shout out for my webseries Marcus Bird: Jamaican in Japan . He was there with this wife, designer Brenda Cunningham founder of eco-friendly clothing line, Souvenir. We said our goodbyes and he told me he’d checkout my website. This is one of the moments when I realized I needed a business card. I said peace, and he left the restaurant.

ONE HOUR LATER

Rob and I are in Gas panic. Blood red lights flood the room and people dance in the shadows. I explained to Rob that I’m a night owl, and that I feed on the night energy of Tokyo. He told me that since there are language barriers and it being a new country, he thought he’d rather see more terrain and sights that necessarily try to chat to women. This opinion changed rapidly when we started clubbing.

Inside GAS PANIC, cute girls were dancing, but it was the music that really set things off. Contemporary hip-hop blasted through speakers I couldn’t see, and the place was jumping. Cute Japanese girls with hair processed to look curly did Atlanta dances like they were born in America. Rob watched with amazement. One girl in particular, in pink overalls really understood the rhythm. I had seen Japanese girls dance before, to reggae and hip-hop, but I could understand Rob’s feelings. This was his first time EVER seeing Japanese people dance like black people.
“It’s sad man.” He said to me.” That these people try so hard to look like us, and so many black people don’t even love themselves.”

I looked at the girls as he said this. One wore an Atlanta cap with hip-hop jeans on. They all had curly hair and sang along to every T.I song that came over the airwaves. But they barely spoke English, if any. It was amazing. We hung out for a little while longer, getting the vibe started. Then we headed to Rippongi.

TWENTY FIVE MINUTES LATER

Tokyo has an endless stream of beautiful women walking the streets. Every minute or two, Rob and I would see women that made us stop, or at least take a peek. He was starting to see what people were talking about in regards to Tokyo.  It’s one thing to see a cute girl every now and then, but in hours we had seen thousands.

We are on the train, and two girls in front of me are looking at my feet and saying something about my shoes. “Big eh? “I say in Japanese. One giggles but pretends not to hear me. She’s been eyeing me since we got on the train in Shibuya. Our stop isn’t far away and it seems the girls aren’t going to our stop. I exit the train terminal and see a face I recognize. It’s a tall, gorgeous woman I met two weeks before. Miki.

I walk over to her and she greets me with a squeal of excitement. Her long, gorgeous arms wrap around me for a moment. I feel her strength. She immediately decides to come with us wherever we are going. We dump our stuff in a locker and head out. Club 911 is the next stop.

In minutes, Rob takes over a little corner near the top bar. Ladies are dancing and smiling, and I’m watching Miki do samba  to a Justin Timberlake song. She is really, really sexy. She sips on a drink and flashes a quiet smile at me every now and then. She’s the kind of woman that I like. Tall and strong, beautiful and fearless on the dance floor. The club is packed, but after a while I start to get antsy. 911 is really small, and in an hour, it starts to turn into a sausage fest. I want Miki to head to a spot called Bar 57 with us, but she says she has to surf in the morning. A little guy hanging beside her and the size of her drink says otherwise to me, but I decide to leave. An older Japanese woman was feeling Rob.

“One more drink, and that’d probably be it.” He said with a laugh.

“Well I’m glad you didn’t have that drink.” I replied with a  smile.

Bar 57 was closing when we reached. It seemed like a hot spot, with expensive drinks, a nice interior and high ceilings. The stragglers were all in designer dresses and high heels. I liked the feel of the place. Maybe next time. We went back to the strip.

FIVE MINUTES LATER

We headed back down the strip. Every few feet a young African man would come up to us, offering us exclusive admission to a club or a strip bar. We went to Club 99 near Odeon and went upstairs. Drunk Japanese girls were dancing on the bar top, but like most places in Tokyo, you get ushered towards the bar first. They say free entry, but if you don’t buy a drink you get kicked out. The spot was a bit lame and we headed out.

The prostitutes found us again somehow and kept pleading with us to get a massage. “Jesus Christ.” These women are persistent.” I said. One of them was actually pretty cute, but knowing what her day job was…

TEN MINUTES LATER

We are hanging in front of a bar near the McDonald’s. I’m on my phone, trying to find out where The Rippongi Gallery is to see if I can catch a bit of Jeri’s performance, but none of the Africans on the strip seem to know where it is. It feels like a put on. “Do you see that?” Rob says.

I glance up and the two girls, now about twenty feet away, are looking back at us.

“Should  we talk to them? ” I said.

“You better take one for the team because I’m not.” Robert said.

I saw what he was talking about. Of the two girls, one was blimp-sized. I took at deep sigh and waved for them to come back. They giggled and kept walking, but as they got further away looked back more. Eventually, they returned. They wore matching black and white outfits and wore gray backpacks. A little odd. The bigger one started asking us a range of questions. “You guys kept looking back at us, so we were wondering what was going on.” I said to the larger one. “I’m sorry, my sister here was interested in you, but she doesn’t speak English.”

“Oh?” I replied. “What language does she speak?”

“Greek.” The girl replied.

“Do you need Windex?” Rob said immediately.

The girl gave him a strange look.
“I’m joking, I’m joking. I know that statement was mad ignorant.” Rob said with a laugh. I started laughing too, but it would be an entire day before I remembered that Windex reference came from the hit movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding.

The girl introduced herself as Athena and her sister as Mina. What was weird about Mina was that she progressively got better at English within minutes of meeting us. Rob made a joke about Atlanta and she laughed. I made a joke that required certain knowledge of American pop humor and bad English grammar and she laughed. Then she started speaking.

“I’m thirty-five.” She said.

We balked.

“Impossible!” I said.

I paused as three tall, leathery Japanese drag queens stormed past. The sisters asked us If we wanted to hang out. I said okay, but I really wasn’t feeling like taking one for the team. We walked towards a bar called Vi-bar, a bar I went to the day before. The girls became quiet, and it felt a little weird. After we stepped inside, a man came to me and asked me what I’m drinking. “One minute.” I said to him. I turned to Rob.

“Dude, you think these girls are hustling us?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. Their accent changes, the weird backpacks, the greek names and everything felt wrong. “Let’s bounce.” Rob said. “Cool.” We headed back out to the madness of Rippongi at four thirty a.m

At the top of the strip, a smooth talking guy named Joe came up to us. He spun a fabulous tale about a strip club where we could drink all we want for thirty bucks and be dazzled and dazed by exotic dancers. I’m not a strip club guy, but the night was going so many places I said, “what the hell.” Rob was in a agreement but we entered under a simple condition. If we didn’t like the spot, we’d leave, if we did we’d have to pay.

We walked back down the strip and stopped at a bar. I laughed. It was the same place the two “greek” girls had taken us to before. This time we went upstairs. A shady looking poster of a naked woman was at the door. We walked in, and it was empty, save a line of strippers standing at attention in a line. It was a weird feeling, coming into the small, empty strip club with all the dancers watching us. One of the strippers was really hot. She had some sort of brazilian look about her. The rest weren’t so appealing. We thanked the staff and left.

Back outside, we walked back to the top of the strip and sat on a road barrier. The streets were still packed, but we knew the night was over. As we waited for the light to change, a pair of small hands grabbed me. It was the prostitute! Rob and I started laughing again. “Sorry, we go now. Back to hotel.” Rob said. We started crossing the street and one of them said, “I come to hotel with you!”

We laughed and turned around.

The night was over.

I had an idea to create a web series called “Jamaican in Japan” a few months before I came to Japan. After several crazy months of culture shock, semi-traveling and buzzed nights, I finally got a camera, Final Cut Pro, and sat down and cranked out my first episode. I tag along with two ladies to a “psychedelic mountain party”, meaning, lots of drinking, building tens, and playing inebriated football in the wee morning hours. Enjoy!

I first saw Maxi Priest at a celebrity football match in the late nineties. I was in the stands with my parents, on a overcast summer day. I had laughed at the clumsy way the artistes played football, with the crowd roaring each time Beenie man received a pass, or Spragga Benz took a horrible shot at goal. Maxi, like the other artistes, was having fun. In the distance I could see his trademark locks, swaying about like snakes.

In the distance, I saw his trademark locks flashing to and fro like black snakes. As the artistes (Mad Cobra and Spragga Benz were also playing) passed the ball to each other, I laughed at their clumsiness. Maxi got a pass or two, flashing his trademark smile if he was tackled. Something about him glowed like an ember. This, I thought, is star power.

In Tokyo in Augst 2009, I see him again for the second time. I`m walking behind my cousin, performing artiste Karl Zanders, whose stage name is Beniton The Menace. Everyone calls him Benny. A white bus with the Billboard Live in conservative print across its breadth sits idly outside the KOEI Plaza Hotel, in Shinjuku . We are the last to arrive.
“This is my cousin.” Benny starts.
Maxi interrupts him.
“You didn`t have to tell me anything big man!” he says with a laugh.
“From I see the `John Wayne` walk, I know is must your family that!”
I laugh, and so does the rest of the bus. Maxi looks exactly like how i`ve remembered him, a little under average height, his locks streaming from a khaki coloured hat.

The first thing I sense about him is a powerful energy. Some stars are notoriously moody, boring or eloquent. Some look at people they don`t know with disquieted eyes, and others are so gregarious their managers need to monitor people for them. Maxi had a laugh that came from the recesses of his soul. It was pure and exultant, filled with the confidence of a man who`s been doing what he wants to for the majority of his life.
“Yow, check them boots here.” He says to Marvin, his son. “Nice eeh?” He is wearing a pair of black designer boots with a thick white sole. I glance at Marvin. He looks like his father in complexion and height, but has less of the boyish features Maxi still possesses in his late forties. Marvin has quiet eyes, a firm jaw and a slightly muscular build. Once he speaks, I feel the Priest energy flow from him as well, as pure as rain. “Bless.” He says, giving me a firm handshake.

The bus rolls off and Tokyo flies by as the band members chat about a common topic when groups of Jamaicans meet: The state of Jamaican as it relates to violence. I sit and listen to opinions flow back and forth, laughing to myself that even in Tokyo, certain things never change.

At the Billboard event hall, we are greeted by courteous staff who usher us to the artist’s room. It is small but clean, and the band starts to laugh about a joke. Phanso, the drummer on duty for the tour, is chided for saying he will take a week to eat an entire gallon of ice cream. I observe the people in the group. There are mostly band members but a few people like myself tagging along for the ride. One of them who left an impression on me was Akico. She was sitting quietly at the table as conversation roared in Jamaican patois. Her face was strikingly beautiful, and she embodied the term “ageless”. Apparently she had been touring with the band for ten years, which made it even harder for me to discern her age. “I sometimes play piano for the band.” She says with a sly smile. That`s all she told me about her time with the band.

I meet the rest of the band in stages. There`s Steve, the outspoken road manager who keeps everyone tickled with an endless stream of jokes. Taddy is the bassist, tall with thick locks and a quiet demeanour. Goofy is the pianist, nicknamed so for being a constant joker. The first show goes smoothly, and I am impressed by Maxi`s singing ability. I had never seen him perform live, and his stage presence was remarkable. The crowd was a tad shy and conservative, but soon they were standing up and singing along. “Domo arigato gozaimashita!” Maxi says in a perfect Japanese accent, creating a cascade of “oohs” through the crowd. To me, the show flows seamlessly, with Maxi hitting the high notes, all the songs end on cue and they don`t go a minute overtime.
During lunch, Maxi gives instructions to tweak some instruments. “I don’t need the guitar drowning out my voice, do you know?” he says to Steve, while sipping a bottle of water. “It`s like I can`t hear myself speak and I have to bring it up too much.”
His voice has dropped into his English inflection from his London roots, connoting a seriousness I hadn`t felt before.

Then, a large woman in an African print outfit with a small entourage enters the room. She speaks with casual Jamaican aplomb, and chats to Maxi for a few minutes with him before taking pictures. Behind her, a few men with locks and sharp smile and listen to the conversation. Maxi evolves into his Jamaican self, laughing it up for a few minutes with his fans. He smiles, chit-chats and watches them leave. After the door is closed to the artist room he turns to Steve. “Steve, people can`t come in here like that when the band is eating. Let`s not make it happen again.” His voice has that English lilt again; the boss voice.

After the final show two girls have followed us back to the hotel, Americans traveling through Asia. They have an early flight in the morning, and thought partying it up with the band would be a good sendoff. In the hotel room, one looks up a youtube video on my laptop while the other sips a beer. They look a little antsy, because no one is really moving. Benny is doing something down the hall, and I’m trying to find out what to do in this area. They head to Marvin`s room, and soon we are headed out into the nighttime life of Shinjuku.

*                           *
Benny is a notoriously savvy self-promoter. Every band practice was broadcasted live through his laptop. Within minutes of taking pictures with fans, or being snapped on stage by a photographer, he would post the pictures to twitter. His laptop was as much of a fixture as his trademarked hair styles.
“I call this style the Illusion.” He said to me the next day. “From a distance you think you know what it is, but as you get closer it changes.” The hairstyle is interesting. He has the slightest beginnings of a mohawk, with shaved blade-like patterns encircling his head leaving two small tufts of hair at the back which resemble miniature ponytails. He is a workhorse, doing the Maxi tours as well as his own production work and shows through the states.  He and Marvin get along pretty well, as they are close in age and mindsets. “Marvin!” Benny barks while looking at something on his laptop. Marvin enters the room with the casual swagger of a star. He is wearing a hotel bathrobe and black rubber sandals. “This is Serani on Good morning New York.” We watch the audio as Serani, a popular new Jamaican dancehall artiste sings “No Games”, his hit song from 2008, in a scratchy, cracking voice. Benny smiles and looks at Marvin.”Can you believe ten million people watched that?”

Maxi Priest is one of the most reknown reggae artistes in the world, but if he`s profited heavily from it, it isn`t immediately apparent. His style casual, with baggy designer jeans, relaxed dress shirts and a variety of caps. Whenever I see him he is smiling and laughing so hard he makes a cackling noise. I could see that the people that followed him weren’t necessarily sponging. He had fame and access, and with this came certain perks which I would soon see firsthand.
“You do photography right?” he said to me backstage on the last day in Tokyo. I nodded. I had become the unofficially official photographer of the tour. “I`m trying to remember the name of a camera… it starts with A.” he said.
“A?” I replied. “I’ll need a little more than that to work with.”
“Okay. It’s black with a red dot on the front.” Maxi replied.
I smiled. For about thirty minutes, Marvin and I try to find the camera he`s talking about. Eventually I find it. It’s a Leica. “Well it ends in A!” Maxi says with a smile. This entire time he has been on his cellphone, chatting to someone.  I`m in the back room, and a well dressed man of middle eastern descent in his forties is sitting beside a young Japanese man. He nods to the young man, who writes down the model number and the name as I recite it from my laptop. They soon leave the room, shaking hands with Maxi.
“That camera was on the UB40 tour I did in Australia a few years back.” He says to me with a bright smile. “It took gorgeous pictures man, beautiful. Those pictures from that camera ended up in the booklet of the tour.” I didn’t need a phd from Harvard to know that he was probably getting that camera for free.

On the second night, a fan gave us access to a party she was hosting in Roppongi. We went in four cabs to the party district. Inside, we received glasses of champagne and a hearty welcome from the hosts. It was a small place called Club Odeon, and it was a Pink Party night. Soon, a pole dancer would thrill the crowd with her heroics, as she suspended her body in difficult positions. Maxi and entourage enjoyed the event reasonably well, drinking champagne and chatting to fans. Then, Benny took the mike and the entire party changed.

He started Hellrazor Sounds systems several years ago, when he did parties and events part-time. Before deciding to go full time on his musical career, this was his calling. TheDJ. “My friends always used to wonder why I wasn’t doing music.” He said to me in the hotel before we went to the club. “These were some hard guys too, drug dealers, gangsters, but they didn’t want that for me. When I started doing the sound thing, guys that had been doing it even longer than me gave me this look like “he knows what he’s doing. ”

The crowd was spellbound as he coordinated some mixes with a Japanese DJ, and brought the house down. The club went from a casual party to a frenzy of dancing and cheering. After ten minutes or so, Benny left the microphone, prompting many to ask him to go back. At some point Maxi slipped out of the club back to the hotel, while the other band members partied a little longer.

The next day, after the last Tokyo show ended, I saw Maxi in the dressing room. He was wiping  his face with a dark brown hand towel. I told him it had been a pleasure meeting him, and seeing him in action. He paused for a second and said, “You not coming with us to Osaka?” I smiled and said I might go, but in that moment, my decision had already been made. Later that day, I bought my train ticket to Osaka.

Update there is a video for this blog post available: Read the article, then view it here.  – Marcus 

Two Japanese girls are lying on either side of me. One, a cute girl named Wakana has a sleeping mask on her face, the other is in a bundle by my left arm. My head is spinning from drinking an entire bottle of Vodka but I’m smiling. I’m in a tent, in the mountains two hours from Hamamatsu, in Japan.

A week before, I was invited to the party by a tall bartender named Hachi. “It will be good man.” He said to me. I wasn’t sure what to think. At first Hachi asked me if I wanted to DJ for the event, then seemed to forget about me after I enquired if the DJs would be paid. Another guy, a young Japanese man I see at a bar I frequent, told me his friend was going.

“She is very cute, you will like her.” He said. I wasn’t sure. I still don’t have much faith in the Japanese girls I’ve been meeting, but I said okay. He told me this the day before the party, on Friday
night. She came to the bar later than night to see me (at the guy’s request) and she was wearing some kind of Kimono.

“I just came from work.” She said with a smile.

I smiled back and made light conversation with her. She was very cute, but generally Japanese women dressed in traditional clothing don’t do anything for me. I would need to see her later in A regular outfit. We decided to check out the party.

My routine in Hamamatsu had been cyclical. The stream of the same bars and clubs　wasn’t fun, or thrilling. Half the places I knew I already knew the people who　worked there and a couple of the regulars. Going out often felt saturated and required too much energy to socialize. A trip to the mountains with a fresh face seemed like a good idea.

I　rode my bike to Zaza city and parked. Their car, like most I’ve seen, was a compact cube-shaped vehicle. They looked small but were generally spacious. My mood was good, and when I came into the car, I heard dancehall reggae playing through the radio.

“It’sDJ Kenny.” Wakana said with a smile. I　chuckled. A DJ Kenny mixtape in a Japanese car in Japan always seemed weird. In　fact, anytime I’m at a reggae party and I’m the only Jamaican there, and I see　the Japanese girls scream “Bap! Bap! Bap!” when they like a song gives me chills.
Something about it doesn’t seem real. Thegirls are both very cute and genki,　and I fall into my routine of stories, jokes and fun conversation. We stop at　a  convenience store to grab some snacks for the trip. It’s an estimated　two hours from Hamamatsu to the party. On the way there, we stop at another　convenience store and I received a free coffee for a reason I still can’t　explain. We drive and talk about life, mostly about Jamaica and I constantly tease Wakana’s friend.

After　an hour or so, it becomes apparent that we are lost. We are on a road so narrow　it feels like being in a tunnel. We are surrounded by trees so big they block the sky and my phone has spotty service. Every few minutes, the girls stop the car and consult the GPS on their phones, but to no avail. I toss in my iphone for good measure and it doesn’t help.

There　were a few dangerous moments as well. Once we had to turn the car on a narrow　road, with the back of the car near a fifty foot precipice. Each time I felt the half a second period between the touch and release of the car brakes, I saw us in the car, falling through the darkness until we hit something solid with a sickening crunch. After a few more wrongs turns and wasted time, we end up near where we started. The girls are determined to find the party.Being on a main road after traveling through the claustrophobic mountain roads was a relief. A street light was like a bottle of water after a long run. We drive for a few more minutes, and the consensus if we are “probably” going in the right direction. We left Hamamatsu at eight-thirty. It was now past eleven o’ clock. A huge dam comes into view and I marvel at it. I probably marveled more because out of boredom I opened my bottle of Vodka I purchased for the party and started chasing it with soda. In the nighttime, the dam was a gigantic looming structure. A powerful monolith of man’s will and desire. It was between two mountains, way up here and very old. The section of the dam that connects
to the road forms a bridge between the two mountains. On our side, near the entryway of the bridge is a parked car. Near it, are a man and two boys. The boys have what look like small fish nets in their hands. They are a few feet in front of their father, walking around in the darkness. Wakana asks him directions and he gives us a good idea of where to go. When I ask her what the
boys were doing, she said they were collecting bugs.

 A　larger, more modern road comes into view and we cheer because we’ve found whereto go. After several hours, a few near misses on the mountain roads and one DJ　Kenny CD on repeat the whole time, we were on the way to the party. It was still at least forty-five minutes away, and I spent some of the time watching the vegetation go by the car in a dark green blur, or asking the ladies questions about their lives. Eventually we saw a few horribly made signs that indicated where the party was.

The　roads became somewhat narrow again, but nowhere as frightening at the roads we　were on earlier. After going up a stretch of hill that revealed the night sky　and moon to us, we saw several parked cars in the darkness, and bodies moving　in the distance on a large field. We had found the mountain party.

The party was on a large open field, where a lodge was built. From what I could see, there wasn’t any gate, any guard or anyone collecting money for that matter. It was about twelve thirty by now, and the party was in full swing. We walked in, our bags of drinks in tow. A bonfire blazed about thirty feet from where I was standing, with Japanese guys with shaggy hair and baggy jeans dancing around it. I turned a corner to see a sea of familiar faces, all residents of
Hamamatsu.

“Hey!”the voices chanted in chorus.

 Everyonewas drunk, high or both already. Several tents were setup and I proceeded to　erect the tent that Wakana, I and her friend would sleep in later. After　setting it up, (with the help of two or three drunk people) the drinking started.Thisis where things get a little fuzzy. I certainly remember chatting to an English girl I know, who seemed to reprimand me for being nicely dressed and coming to　the party with two Japanese girls. There was some conversation with a friend or　two from Hamamatsu, but it most likely involved nothing worth remembering. Then　I danced with two rave cones beside the bonfire, fueled by liquid confidence.　Then as the night progressed, everyone started playing the drums and drinking　beer at the same time. Somewhere, I could smell marijuana smoke, but I wasn’t　sure where it was coming from. After the drum fest, there was more drinking,　spotty conversation and obvious sexual innuendo. I tried to make a move with　one of my girls, who told me she had a boyfriend.

Day　broke and the sun started to rise and some genius decided we should all play early morning soccer. Drunk, shirtless and filming at the same time, I fall on my first pass, slashing my elbow but not feeling much pain because of the alcohol in my system. I hail up a few DJs and some people who are still dancing by the bonfire and eat some rice from a huge bowl near the drum area. People
are settling down and things are getting quiet.

This　is when I retreat to the tent, and make myself cozy with the two girls. Once I zipped up the tent, the pounding of the music outside became a dull throb.Later,driving down the mountain, I c could really see where I was. Ancient trees swaying in a morning breeze numbering in the tens of thousands were all around me. I could see far away, the lines of other mountains in the distance.

I saw small hill towns and old railway cars, little groves with brooks and gushing rivers
and tons of vegetation. I was still tired and a bit hung over, but it was a good time. I stepped groggily out of the car when I got back to Hamamatsu, giving both ladies a weak but smiley faced goodbye. I found my bike, and started riding home, laughing at the fact that I was raving dancing only hours
before, in my purple shirt, with a bonfire blazing behind me.

I’m in the shadows, and I’m kissing a girl with braces.

She’s wearing the cute Japanese summer style I’m accustomed to now: A short-brimmed  hat, shorts that reveal most of her legs, and a cute top. Her name is Ayano, and we met a few minutes before.
Monday nights are generally quiet and chill, ending with a laptop screen filled with porn or a me sleeping.
But this Monday, there were women, video games, and drinking on the street.
I’m idly looking at an empty bottle of whiskey near my laptop. I sigh, thinking of the night before, when I sipped on whiskey and coke while watching the mind-trip of a movie, Knowing.
It’s a Monday evening, and I roll. I’m in my usual gear. Hipster jeans, new balances and a tank top. Tank tops here are a necessity. Living in a coastal city in Japan is like living in a wet blanket. I can’t imagine wearing a long sleeve shirt in the summertime here.
Monday nights sometimes finds me at Eigo Mora (English Village) where I engage in conversation with Japanese people who pay about ten dollars every Monday to practice their English with foreigners. I like the experience, and I try to speak to a few different people every week.
A lot of the patrons are older Japanese men with jobs that took them all over the world so they speak very good English. Others are shy men and women who sometimes speak very well, but are too shy to engage in loud conversation and the occasional anecdote with us the foreigners.
At this Eigo Mora, I recognize a face; Niaya.  She’s a small girl from New York with a British accent.
“I hear there is an event at Second tonight.” She tells me.
“Oh really?” I say.
Second is a club near Junk, the western style bar where Eigo Mora is held. Second is  small and dark with graffiti covering ever square inch of the walls.
“Cool, we can roll.” I say.
After I say my goodbyes and sip on the last of my beer, I head out into the night with Niaya. She’s American, and sometimes her having an English accent is a little odd to me, but she always has interesting stories about being drunk and being hit on by strange Japanese men.  It’s about ten o’ clock, early for going out anywhere, but after buying a drink at the 7-11 near Junk, we head to second. Inside, is dark and hip-hop roars through speakers near the DJ. Behind the bar counter, is the owner. He is always in a black t-shirt with his long hair kept in a pontytail. He nods at me as I walk in, and I shake his hand. Inside, the dance floor is relatively empty, with four people standing at various points, covered in shadows. 
“Hey you!” a voice says from the Shadows. I see a familiar silhouette emerge and recognize Ten, the dancer. He’s bristling with his usual energy. He talks to Niaya while I stand on the dance floor. I’m feeling the music, and I groove a bit. To my left, two cute girls are watching me as I dance. I Go over and say hello.
“Your hat is cute.” I say to one of them. This is Ayano.
“I love your tattoo.” I say to the other.
The other girl has a tattoo of a scorpion on her left shoulder blade. I find this interesting, because having tattoos in Japan is very taboo, especially for women.
I go back to the dance floor and keep grooving. The girls are with a guy, and I can’t tell which one is with him. However, both of them rest eyes on me occasionally, which makes me wonder. Ten started doing his dance thing on the floor, spinning and doing rapid combinations of popping and locking. The girl with the scorpion tattoo came up to me and touched my arm.
“Dekai…” she said.
I laughed and pinched her on the cheek. Soon afterwards, the guy with the girls pulled her into a corner. The girl with the cute hat, Ayano, came over. We spoke in Japanese.
“Where are you from?” she said.
“Jamaica.” I told her.
“Really, why are you in Japan?” she asked.
“You know, the usual. Working, trying to find myself.” I said.
She was very cute, and we agreed to meet later. Despite all the fun I was having, there were only five of us in the club. “Catch you later.” I told her.
Myself, Niaya and Ten left the club at the same time. Outside, surprisingly, we saw the two girls and the guy. He didn’t look too happy to see me. The girl with the scorpion tattoo came up to me and touched my arm again. She really seemed fascinated with me, which was a little unusual for the small-town-shy-girl vibe I’d been getting for a while.
I laughed and told her I’d see them later. They walked off into the distance. Ten was laughing.
“Did you see his face? Wow, he was worried man!”
Niaya wasn’t really saying much, but she suggested we head to Planet Café. Monday nights at Planet Café aren’t anything to really get crazy about, but sometimes there were enough people there to have a little fun. We headed to planet, chatting about nothing important on the way.
I came in and said hello to the bartender, a guy of average height with a calm demeanour and an attractive face. Good for his job. I introduce him to Niaya and she is immediately enamored. After a few minutes she tells him, “I want you to be my boyfriend.” He laughs, and tells her he has a girlfriend.
BehindCafe. They squeal when they see me and Ten. I start chuckling and Ten is stifling a huge laugh. Later he would keep telling me he wished I saw the expression on the guy’s face (the guy the girls came with ) when he saw us at Planet Cafe.
Scorpion girl  had shifted her attention to Ten now, and I started chatting with three women sitting at a table near the bar.  Ayano (girl with the hat) was chatting to the guy she came with somewhere near the main entrance. The ladies I chatted to were an interesting bunch. One lived in Nagoya and was subtly hinting to me her hotel was nearby, the other worked in some sort of music company and the last lady was mostly quiet. They were in their late thirties, looking a little bored. 
Soon, I heard Ten’s voice.
“Go to the dance floor. NOW.” He said.
I excused myself from the table with the ladies. Apparently, the guy who came with the girls had left, leaving the two cuties unattended in the bar. I walked to the dance floor, which was empty. In the shadows near four large speakers in the back, were three distinguishable figures, Ten, Scorpion girl, and Ayano. I chatted to Ayano over the loud music, occasionally dancing and pecking her on the neck.
Soon after, we made out and went back inside, sitting together on a couch and chatting. We talked about Dragon Ball Z, music and a lot of other things. I was working overtime doing translation for Ten, who doesn’t speak that much Japanese. It seemed the night was going well. After half an hour the girl said they had to leave. Niaya said she’d grab a cab and see us later.
We followed the girls to their car, a small white cube looking vehicle, and said good night.